Read Online Adventures with Jane and her Legacy 01 Jane Austen Ruined My Life by Beth Pattillo - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Beth Pattillo
Tags: Jane Austen Fan Lit
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meals."
The walls, papered in familiar faded cabbage roses, boasted a wealth of early nineteenth-century prints. Fashion plates, mostly, from the ladies' magazines of the time, showing daydresses, evening gowns, riding habits--everything a woman of quality might need. Jane Austen, or more likely her sister, Cassandra, would have studied them and adapted the ideas to their own tastes and means.
"Here. Do sit down. I'll fetch the lunch."
"Please. Let me help."
"No, no. I won't be a minute."
Given her shuffling gait, Mrs. Parrot was going to need more than a minute to bring lunch from the kitchen. I settled in to wait. I'd have much preferred helping her, of course, but my mother had drilled me in the social graces at a young age, and doing as your hostess instructed had been at the top of the list.
The pantry windows looked out on the small garden at the back of the house. The landscape was as jumbled and curious as the inside of the house. No formal parterre here, but rather a mishmash of roses, fruit trees, trellises, and archways. The foliage was lush and vibrant, though. Mrs. Parrot employed an excellent gardener.
The door opened, and Mrs. Parrot reappeared. "Here we are, my dear." She carried the tray with surprising ease, but I still stood up and reached out to take it from her. "Oh, thank you. Just put it there on the table."
The tray contained a plate of sandwiches, two packets of chips much like the ones Adam had furnished for our picnic, and a bottle of sparkling water. I set the tray on the table. Mrs. Parrot settled into her chair, and I did the same.
"So," she said, reaching for a sandwich and placing it on the delicate bone china in front of her, "you've been to Steventon?"
"Yes, ma'am." I hesitated, unsure whether to offer any further answer.
"Here, take your crisps along with that sandwich," she said, referring to the potato chips by their British name. "They're murder on the arteries, but I never can seem to resist."
I hid my smile and did as instructed.
"What did you think of the church?" she asked as she reached for the bottle of sparkling water and poured it into the waiting glasses. "Quaint, isn't it?"
"Yes. And peaceful. I'm glad it's not mobbed by tourists, although I wish the rectory were still there. That empty field was a bit anticlimactic."
She nodded. "Yes, it is, isn't it?" She took a sip of her water. "And the parish register?"
I decided to lay my cards on the table. "I'll be honest, Mrs. Parrot. I'm not exactly sure what you sent me to Steventon to find. But I studied the page from the register, and I read the letter you gave me." I paused. "Is it really authentic?"
Mrs. Parrot smiled. "Of course, dear."
I waited for her to say more, but she merely bit into her sandwich.
"As I said, I'm not sure what you sent me to look for ..." My words trailed off. "I know I'm supposed to figure it out, but all I could think of was--"
"Was what, dear?"
"Well, after looking at the mock entries in the parish register and then reading the letter, all I could come up with was that maybe Jack Smith was a real person. Not like the first two."
Mrs. Parrot was nodding. "Very good. Yes, very good. I knew you were a bright girl."
Since I was on the wrong side of thirty, I should probably have objected to being called a girl, but I rather liked it.
"So I'm right? Jack Smith was a real person, not a figment of her imagination?"
"Well, now, that would be telling, wouldn't it?" Mrs. Parrot popped a crisp into her mouth and munched away happily.
"There's nothing wrong with telling, is there?" I wasn't above begging if it came down to it.
Mrs. Parrot patted her mouth daintily with a cloth napkin. "Where would the fun be in that, my dear? No, no. Patience is the order of the day. All will be revealed in time."
Was she playing me? The thought popped into my head, and I couldn't immediately quash it. I really had no proof of her claims, other than my own unsubstantiated belief in the authenticity of the
The walls, papered in familiar faded cabbage roses, boasted a wealth of early nineteenth-century prints. Fashion plates, mostly, from the ladies' magazines of the time, showing daydresses, evening gowns, riding habits--everything a woman of quality might need. Jane Austen, or more likely her sister, Cassandra, would have studied them and adapted the ideas to their own tastes and means.
"Here. Do sit down. I'll fetch the lunch."
"Please. Let me help."
"No, no. I won't be a minute."
Given her shuffling gait, Mrs. Parrot was going to need more than a minute to bring lunch from the kitchen. I settled in to wait. I'd have much preferred helping her, of course, but my mother had drilled me in the social graces at a young age, and doing as your hostess instructed had been at the top of the list.
The pantry windows looked out on the small garden at the back of the house. The landscape was as jumbled and curious as the inside of the house. No formal parterre here, but rather a mishmash of roses, fruit trees, trellises, and archways. The foliage was lush and vibrant, though. Mrs. Parrot employed an excellent gardener.
The door opened, and Mrs. Parrot reappeared. "Here we are, my dear." She carried the tray with surprising ease, but I still stood up and reached out to take it from her. "Oh, thank you. Just put it there on the table."
The tray contained a plate of sandwiches, two packets of chips much like the ones Adam had furnished for our picnic, and a bottle of sparkling water. I set the tray on the table. Mrs. Parrot settled into her chair, and I did the same.
"So," she said, reaching for a sandwich and placing it on the delicate bone china in front of her, "you've been to Steventon?"
"Yes, ma'am." I hesitated, unsure whether to offer any further answer.
"Here, take your crisps along with that sandwich," she said, referring to the potato chips by their British name. "They're murder on the arteries, but I never can seem to resist."
I hid my smile and did as instructed.
"What did you think of the church?" she asked as she reached for the bottle of sparkling water and poured it into the waiting glasses. "Quaint, isn't it?"
"Yes. And peaceful. I'm glad it's not mobbed by tourists, although I wish the rectory were still there. That empty field was a bit anticlimactic."
She nodded. "Yes, it is, isn't it?" She took a sip of her water. "And the parish register?"
I decided to lay my cards on the table. "I'll be honest, Mrs. Parrot. I'm not exactly sure what you sent me to Steventon to find. But I studied the page from the register, and I read the letter you gave me." I paused. "Is it really authentic?"
Mrs. Parrot smiled. "Of course, dear."
I waited for her to say more, but she merely bit into her sandwich.
"As I said, I'm not sure what you sent me to look for ..." My words trailed off. "I know I'm supposed to figure it out, but all I could think of was--"
"Was what, dear?"
"Well, after looking at the mock entries in the parish register and then reading the letter, all I could come up with was that maybe Jack Smith was a real person. Not like the first two."
Mrs. Parrot was nodding. "Very good. Yes, very good. I knew you were a bright girl."
Since I was on the wrong side of thirty, I should probably have objected to being called a girl, but I rather liked it.
"So I'm right? Jack Smith was a real person, not a figment of her imagination?"
"Well, now, that would be telling, wouldn't it?" Mrs. Parrot popped a crisp into her mouth and munched away happily.
"There's nothing wrong with telling, is there?" I wasn't above begging if it came down to it.
Mrs. Parrot patted her mouth daintily with a cloth napkin. "Where would the fun be in that, my dear? No, no. Patience is the order of the day. All will be revealed in time."
Was she playing me? The thought popped into my head, and I couldn't immediately quash it. I really had no proof of her claims, other than my own unsubstantiated belief in the authenticity of the
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